


Dark Chest of Wonders

by Michelle



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Blood, Blood and Injury, Blood and Torture, Blood and Violence, Dark, Dark Character, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-23
Updated: 2006-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:20:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28936914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michelle/pseuds/Michelle
Summary: In a world thrown into darkness, what would Aragorn’s and Legolas’ love be like?
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Legolas Greenleaf
Kudos: 2





	Dark Chest of Wonders

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Dark Chest of Wonders  
> Author: Michelle  
> Email: michelle [at] waking-vision.com  
> Summary: In a world thrown into darkness, what would Aragorn’s and Legolas’ love be like?  
> Pairing: A/L  
> Beta: Namarie, quickest beta to grace the fandom! All remaining mistakes are my own.  
> Genre: slash, darkfic  
> Rating: NC17  
> Warning: AU. This is not for the faint of heart – and I mean it! There’s torture, sexual violence, rape, blood, sharp objects, shackled Aragorn and general dark themes. This will not have a fluffly ending, so be warned.  
> Disclaimer: I’m glad Tolkien did not write this version of things. I take the blame for everything, but that doesn’t mean I own the characters or settings.  
> Author’s Note: Written for the August LAS Challenge, “Dominant Legolas”. Title taken from the Nightwish song.

_I’ve been stripped of everything_

_Except some flesh that bleeds_

_And I’ve been robbed of everything_

_Except a soul that needs_

_You._

(“I don’t have anything” Vast)

~*~

The room is one of the most luxuriant in the palace. Aragorn distinctly remembers Legolas telling him that, once, so many long years ago when he was a young man barely old enough to grow a beard. It belonged to Legolas’ mother before she died and Aragorn recalls how the draperies and carpets were of bright colours, sunshine pouring in through the windows, her dresses and gowns still in the wardrobe as if she left only days ago.

The feminine touch is all but gone now, the light is pale and gloomy, the colours faded and grey. Dust dances in the air when the weak rays of the sun try to penetrate the darkness of Mirkwood. Nothing can, though. Hope has deserted the realm. Sometimes the air is so oppressive he has to choke, his lungs refusing to breathe the stale air.

This room has become his prison, his life has shrunk down to the few feet between the four-poster-bed and the wall, the window and the table, the daybed and the chest. The chest, of dark wood intricately carved with leaves and flowers and trees, is the only thing locked. Not even the door and windows are barred, mocking him to dare and try an escape. He knows better, though. He bears the scars to prove it.

Aragorn remembers how it was in the beginning, so many years ago. The gentle elf, so loving, so trusting. Always caring and compassionate, a gift sent by Ilúvatar himself. Legolas captured Aragorn’s heart without much effort. Blissful years followed, years full of love and laughter. Those memories of Legolas’ smiling face are what keeps Aragorn alive today. He was so young then, Aragorn muses. How could he have known where his love for Legolas would lead him in the end? How could any of them have known?

It could not last, Aragorn understands this now. He does not believe in a _happily ever after_ anymore. When the shadow in Mirkwood grew and Thranduil summoned his son to be at his side in his time of need, Legolas followed obediently. When they parted at the base of the Misty Mountains, Legolas riding east and Aragorn north, they whispered promises to each other. It was the last time Aragorn ever saw Legolas’ eyes shining with love, not contempt.

For long years they were parted and news from Mirkwood became sparse. Finally, after no word from the forest had reached him in years, the silence became too ominous, the pull of his lover too strong and he left the north and turned east, heading for Mirkwood. He ended up in hell itself.

The realm over-run by the threat from Dol Guldur. Orcs roaming the woods freely and capturing him only hours after he enters the forest. He is brought before Legolas, whose fëa is twisted almost beyond recognition. Darkness has entered and consumed the elf and he claims the ranger for himself. Aragorn is imprisoned in the queen’s chambers then, for Legolas to use as he sees fit.

Aragorn despises himself, for he cannot simply turn away from the elf. He loves him still, and even if Legolas beats and rapes and humiliates him, his love cannot be snuffed out like a candle. He has tried - has tried to hate Legolas, to fight back. Sometimes, when Legolas is especially incensed, he enjoys pushing Aragorn to his limits. In the beginning, Aragorn pushes back, fights the elf’s abuse. But it only ever costs him, so he gives up in the end. And with that the hope that Legolas will someday be returned to his true self fades as well.

In the early days, though, when hope has not yet died within him, he has a sense of past, present and future. He believes there can be an end to this. He wants a future for the both of them, wants to save Legolas before he can destroy them both. And he concludes he has to save himself first. He flees to seek the help of those wiser than himself, but he does not even manage to leave the palace grounds before the infuriated elf catches up with him. That night he loses all measure of time.

Legolas makes him pay dearly. It is Aragorn’s own dagger Legolas uses to carve lines into his body. He can still feel the sharp pain of the weapon slicing and cutting into his flesh. But the longer the torture goes on the duller the pain and soon there is only Legolas’ heavy breathing in the air while the elf roughly moves within him. He draws an orgasm from Aragorn against his will and it leaves him boneless and weak. Defeated again.

He thinks his punishment over, but Legolas takes up the dagger once more. “You think you are someone special, man?” The voice rings in Aragorn’s tired mind. “The king of men?”

He is not supposed to answer. Legolas does not like Aragorn speaking up. “You are no one,” the elf spits. “Just my possession. _He_ has given me to you and I will treasure _His_ gift.”

And then Legolas starts showing Aragorn that he certainly is no king of men. The dagger moves along his left forefinger, where he still wears the Ring of Barahir. He is bound tightly to the bed, so he cannot move away from the threat. His gaze is glued to the spectacle and then, suddenly and without warning, Legolas cuts the finger from his hand, only up to the first joint. He feels the weapon move through flesh and bone and his stomach tumbles into an abyss and he thinks he might be sick. He recalls his body bucking under Legolas’ weight, recalls how he screams. Screams while he sees the blood gushing out, screams for the tip of his finger is lying on the bed and he has never been so scared in his life.

He fights wildy, but the bonds hold and there is no escaping the elf’s wrath. He sees the dagger come back and his left hand tugs and tears at the shackles. The rope is chafing his skin, adding to the growing pool of blood on the bed. But he does not feel it, he wants to escape the greater pain. Legolas has him, though, lovingly the daggers moves to the next joint, seems to caress it. Aragorn tries to calm his breathing, tries to stop his panting gasps or he might hyperventilate. He knows what will come and wants to prepare for it. But when Legolas cuts the next part from his finger, the pain is even sharper than before. It is taking over his mind and his voice grows raspy from his desperate screams.

He feels cold sweat on his forehead, drops of it trickling into his eyes. He notices how he starts to tremble. In a last feeble attempt he tries to free his hand again, but then his limbs grow heavy and his strength fades. The blood pools on the bed and his half-lidded eyes see only red. He watches the dagger come again, but then his sight fails him. He falls, deeper and deeper and in some part of his mind the sharp pain of another cut penetrates. But he only hears his own labored breathing and his pleas for Legolas to stop. His soul is pouring out, leaving through this open wound and he feels empty. The beat of his heart sounds like a bell tolling, and then everything just stops.

He spends endless days in a fever. Drugs and pain hold his mind down and he never consciously notices Legolas slipping into the room and using his sweaty and broken body like a tool. When the elf enters him without preamble it only adds to the steady throbbing in his body and his weak moans are those of one standing at death’s door and wishing to be allowed to finally enter. Sometimes Legolas licks the cold sweat from Aragorn’s body, savouring the taste of pain and desperation. At others the elf caresses the heavily bandaged left hand lovingly, like an artist caresses his sculpture.

When Aragorn starts to recover Legolas’ visits stop. The Ring of Barahir is gone and the man is afraid to ask for its whereabouts. He has lost track of time throughout his illness and from then on it is only day after day of misery. The mirror in the room shows him his gaunt face. His eyes are sunken in, their gaze that of a man who has stepped beyond the veil. His skin is pale and sickly, and he is reminded of a withering plant set in a dark cellar to die. As the numberless days go on he notices grey appearing in his hair and beard and when Legolas finally resumes his visits, Aragorn stands before the mirror, tracing the whiplash scars on his back with his remaining right forefinger.

He covers the mirror with a piece of cloth he finds in the wardrobe.

Aragorn tries to fill his days with memories of happier times and thinks of his family, his friends, his rangers. But it only adds to his worries, so in the end he lets go of all these worldly things. Others will have to fight his war, for he is nothing but Legolas’ toy. He accepts that fate has bound him to the fallen elf and stays willingly, trying to find some remnant of love or care in Legolas’ rough touches. He looks at the dark chest then, thinks of its contents and wonders when the elf will visit him again. Maybe today, and his stomach lurches in equal measures of anticipation and dread.

He cannot tell, though, how long it is until Legolas enters the room again. Aragorn is sitting next to the window, looking out into the gloom and tracing gnarled tree limbs with his eyes. Legolas shuts the door forcefully and Aragorn snaps to attention.

He hates the thought, but the darkness has made Legolas only more beautiful. He stands erect, proud, sure of himself. His skin is as white as marble, his face hard-edged, his eyes blue, cold and intense. He looks like a God. He certainly is one to Aragorn, his whole world revolves around him.

Aragorn simply sits, awaiting Legolas’ move. The elf’s gaze rests on him for a moment, empty and without compassion and then Legolas walks to the chest to open it with the key he brought.

“The wall,” he orders and Aragorn understands. He just moves over, knowing what will come, and the skin on his back tingles in anticipation and he hates that he does not know whether he enjoys or fears the moment.

Legolas rummages through the chest, taking out things, and when he is done he comes over to Aragorn and shackles his hands to the wall. Aragorn’s back is exposed to Legolas’ wrath now and he leans the side of his face against the cool surface of the wall and breathes deeply. It is always easier to live through the pain when he does not fight it.

Behind his back, he hears Legolas shake out the whip. Then the elf steps up to him, their bodies nearly touching. Aragorn can feel the nearness of the elf he cannot help but love, feels him breathe against his neck and the whip caress his side.

“You will scream for me tonight,” Legolas’ voice penetrates the silence of the room and Aragorn knows it for the promise it is.

Then Legolas steps back and nothing happens for a while. Aragorn waits and his position becomes painful, because the shackles have metal pricks that cut into his wrists if he does not hold up his arms.

And then the lash comes, almost shyly at first. He knows it will leave his skin reddened, but nothing more – for now. Legolas works methodically, drawing parallel lines on his back. Seven on the right, seven on the left. And then he starts over, always managing to hit the exact the same spots on his back.

Legolas does not leave Aragorn with any time to breathe or get his bearings. The elf whips him in a steady rhythm and soon Aragorn’s world shrinks down to where the leather meets his skin. He knows the procedure, knows that before long Legolas will draw blood.

Aragorn’s whole body presses against the wall, unconsciously trying to get away from the pain. He cannot help it, he tugs at the bonds and the pricks cut into his wrists. He feels a line of blood trickle down his arms, but he can spare it no thought. He closes his eyes instead and breathes through the all-consuming pain.

When the agony becomes too much he does not even try to hold in his moans. Legolas enjoys it when he is loud, he knows that. And when he feels slick blood ooze from his back, his forehead rests against the wall and a deep moan escapes him with every new blow. Aragorn feels his knees buckle and only in the last possible moment he rights himself, or else he might be suspended from the painful bonds.

He cannot help it, he sobs Legolas’ name. Sometimes this only infuriates the elf further. Sometimes he takes pity on him.

“Legolas,” comes Aragorn’s faint voice, but the elf hears him nonetheless and wondrously the rhythm of the blows falters and stops. Aragorn knows they are not done yet, but at least the flogging is over for now.

He hears the whip fall to the ground and Legolas comes back with a candle in his hand. He stands close again and Aragorn can see the elf from the corner of his eye. The candle comes close to his back, lingering, illuminating his mangled flesh for the elf who gives an appreciative sigh. The heat of the candle flame becomes unbearable and his body jerks away, tugging uselessly at the bonds. Legolas simply moves the candle to another spot. Again and again the heat flares and his body protests. The pain of it moves up and down, left and right and Aragorn hisses and presses his pained body into the wall.

He hears Legolas’ laboured breathing and knows the elf enjoys himself. The candle is gone then, set upon the night table and Legolas comes up flush behind him, pressing into his lacerated back. He feels the elf’s cock nudge his ass and cannot help but moan, hoping to feel the elf inside himself soon. He feels his own desire grow and pushes back against Legolas.

Legolas’ fingers move along the bleeding wounds on his back and fire again spreads through his body. Through the haze of his pain he feels Legolas hump against him, the elf’s hot breath on his neck. And then his mouth is on one of the wounds, sucking lovingly at the blood. It feels as if the elf is drawing the very life out of him. The tongue is an intruder, rasping against his already misused flesh. Aragorn tries to turn his head further to capture the elf’s attention, but it takes a while until Legolas tires of suckling at Aragorn’s wounds and brutally kisses his mouth instead.

Aragorn tastes his own blood on his lips and Legolas bruises his mouth with the force of his kiss. His cock throbs with need nonetheless and then Legolas grabs him and strokes him hard while he moves against Aragorn.

The elf lets go then and unshackles Aragorn. The sudden freedom almost makes him lose his balance, but he manages to right himself and stumbles over to the bed. He lies down on his stomach and for a few seconds he can see Legolas in all his glory. He has stripped and his pale body is glowing, sweat glistening on his skin. His cock is erect, ready to give Aragorn pleasure after Legolas’ hands have given him pain.

But then Legolas reaches him on the bed and turns him on his back, pressing the wounds into the mattress in a painful fashion. He covers Aragorn’s eyes with a dark cloth and prepares to enter the man.

The sudden dark attunes Aragorn to the misery of his body. But moments later he feels Legolas’ hands on him, probing without any patience. And then the elf’s cock is at his entrance and he pushes forward desperately, because this is what he has been waiting for. His back pains him, but Legolas’ movement in him causes a whole other kind of fire to spread within him and soon he meets the elf’s thrusts despite the agony it causes him and their moans mingle in the air between them.

Aragorn knows he is not allowed to touch – not the elf and not himself, so his hands knead the bedsheets instead. Legolas touches his cock then and he arches off the bed, his moan long and deep, a testament to all the restrained emotion that needs to be set free. He hears the elf’s cold laughter in response to his action, but then the laughter stops abruptly and Legolas thrusts into him and grows rigid. Aragorn cannot see, but he remembers Legolas’s expression from the few times the elf did not take him from behind. Darkness and evil left him for a fleeting moment and Aragorn could see joy replace the anger on Legolas’ face. He knows he will endure this hell for eternity if it means giving Legolas this measure of peace. Theirs is a love twisted by fate and circumstance and he can only accept his role in it.

So Aragorn flows with Legolas’ orgasm, imagining the elf’s face though he cannot see it and that alone pushes him over the edge as well. Pain and hurt are forgotten and only come back full force when Legolas draws out of him and leaves him empty and hollow.

Aragorn lies there unmoving, his breathing harsh. His mind floats and wanders while he hears Legolas clean up and put away his tools in the chest, locking it again.

The pain gets the better of him and he starts to fade off into an exhausted sleep. But before darkness encroaches him, he feels Legolas place a kiss upon his sweat-covered brow. His heart rejoices at the tender gesture.

“You did well,” the elf’s voice floats into his mind and Aragorn drifts off, content despite the all-consuming pain. When the door closes and he is alone once more, his last thought is with Legolas.

“I love you,” he whispers to the empty room and in the hallway the elf’s sharp hearing catches the words. He smiles, victorious once more, but never falters in his step.

Inside the room, Aragorn rolls onto his side with the last of his strength to spare his tortured back. He hopes the elf will visit again soon.

Then he sleeps.

_\- The End_

_(August 2006)_


End file.
